


Carillon (day 20-Sore throat)

by Only_Slightly_Obsessed (A_Stressed_Cupcake)



Series: Rémy's 2020 Multifandom Whumptober Works [20]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Sickfic, They married, which I don't usually write but this is what whumptober is all about
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:08:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27167692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Stressed_Cupcake/pseuds/Only_Slightly_Obsessed
Summary: A sore throat isn’t a big problem, generally.That does not ring true to Christine._____Whumptober 2020 day 20: Sore throat
Relationships: Raoul de Chagny/Christine Daaé
Series: Rémy's 2020 Multifandom Whumptober Works [20]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1965271
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Carillon (day 20-Sore throat)

A sore throat isn’t a big problem, generally.

That does not ring true to Christine. She went to bed with a tingle in the back of her throat and woke up with a terrible, burning ache in its place. She curls up a little, gathering the covers around her shoulders, hoping to shield her sore throat from further harm; to no avail, probably, the damage is done and her throat is on fire. It’s not the only thing that hurts, either. Her head feels heavy and her very bones are aching. But her throat is the worst part, by far. 

She kicked Raoul out of bed without hesitation and would do so again, but it looks like it might be too late judging by the dry coughs that he tries to hide in his handkerchief. 

The doctor told them both it was nothing. A common cold. Bothersome, but not dangerous.

She would have to disagree. Danger comes from all sides, she knows it well, and it hasn’t been long since their unfortunate dip in the lake below the opera house. Or rather, Raoul’s. She was never in that lake, but the sort of horrors she’s heard about swimming in dirty water are enough to make her doubt the nature of their condition. 

But that isn’t the worst part. Neither is the way that Raoul’s already raspy voice gets worse every minute, and what that makes them both think of. No, the worst part is that there is so little she can do to console herself, so little she can do to escape from that darkness in the back of her mind. Reading doesn’t work, and neither does anything that she can do while she’s in bed, because she  _ needs _ sound. Her thoughts are loud. The world must be louder. But the house is so quiet. She can’t study, or write, or play the piano, because the pain in her back won’t let her sit straight. Raoul is doing much better, but he can’t play anything, so she doesn’t ask him to, and he can’t speak to her without her flinching from how raspy he sounds, so he goes quiet.

Worst of all, she can’t sing.

Not even a hum, not even a simple exercise, because it would ruin her throat completely, because it hurts so much already and any attempt at making a sound makes it burn like hellfire. 

It’s been so long since she couldn’t sing.

They stay in that torturous silence, trapped and helpless once more, until their afternoon tea.

Christine stirs her cup reluctantly, staring sadly at the reflection of her sickly little face in the tea. Raoul hasn’t even picked up the spoon and keeps twisting his hands nervously, with a blue blanket draped over his shoulders because it’s just them anyway and she won’t judge him for wanting to stay warm.

He keeps glancing at her, though, which is more than a little unnerving. He looks away as soon as she glances back at him, which is more suspicious still. Finally, after ten minutes and no tea drunk on either side, she manages to unequivocally catch him staring.

“What?” she rasps out, maybe a bit rudely.

He shrugs awkwardly, still refusing to talk.

“You can-” she cuts herself off to cough a couple times, “-tell me, you know?”

Hesitantly, he leans forward a bit. “I just… you seem a bit sad.”

She stops herself from flinching at that hoarse whisper. Raspier than him, and with many pauses to cough, she explains her plight. Music. Sound.

As Raoul listens, a lot of things pass through his eyes. Concern, understanding, and a sudden flash. An idea.

Without even answering, he drags himself to his feet and runs off into their bedroom, returning soon after with a small wooden box in his hands. Christine glances back and forth between him and the box in pure confusion. 

“What is that?” she murmurs.

He flips the box upside down, revealing a spring lock key underneath.

Oh.

_ Oh _ .

“A music box?” she guesses, as he turns the key and places the box in front of her.

The music is an old lullaby and there’s very little frill or decoration on or inside the box. But it puts her mind at peace, better than anything else she’s tried. With shaking hands, red from her rising fever, she pulls the box closer.

It sits next to her the rest of the evening as she reads, and no more darkness fills her mind.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, you thought I was done with these two? So did I. But then that "sore throat" prompt caught my eye and since me and my entirely family caught a terrible cold (just a cold dw) recently and I needed to project my awful awful sore throat and my inability to access my main coping mechanism aka singing, I turned my eyes, inevitably, to Ms Christine Daaé :,)  
> And, because last time around it was the opposite, Raoul gets to help her out this time :D
> 
> -Rémy


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